


One, Two, Cuddle my Sleuth

by archea2



Series: The Reason for the Unreason [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's call this a Choose Your Own Cuddle Adventure, written as a gift fic for Loryisunabletosupinate. </p><p>Three endgame pairings, according to the twists and turns you choose: Sherlock/Lestrade OR Sally/Lestrade OR Sally/Lestrade/Sherlock. </p><p>To play this game, start from Chapter 1. At the end of each chapter, you'll be given a choice of two sequels: pick one and skip to the relevant chapter number, using the chapter index. All the stories end in a cuddle - no Christmas tragedy here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The case ends at four under a sky as blue as their own blue-and-twos. And much, much colder than when the case started.

It is evening, but then it has been evening for half of the day now that December is on its last legs. The cold hoards a touch of wind, which is fine with Greg because there’s something clear-cut and no-nonsense about it. It blows the sounds of winter into a proper background, better heard now that his mind is no longer on crime – song of bells, one raven's cry, a sizzle of chestnut in the little square across their van, even a tinny rendition of _A Snowglobe Winter Cold_ which he remembers from Ma's effort to round up Christmas hail or rain, the year after his Da left them.

Thus, clear and cathartic. And cold. Greg gathers his coat into a tighter hug around him while giving his team the clear-up. They’ve been on this stakeout since dawn, four of them in the nondescript van, with only a supply of Mars Bars for lunch in case they had to leave in a hurry. But they’ve got their man. Nicked him clean, no damage, no ‘death message’ to deliver, all in all a good day. Night. And lookit that, there’s an an old-fashioned café behind the chestnut stand, the scent of roasted coffee already bonding with the whiff of roasted chestnuts.

He’s a good man, but he’s also off-duty. And so Lestrade turns to inform his team that it’s a quick one for him and keep’em busy at barracks until he comes. And finds his team gone – well, almost, because Sal is still here, grinning at him as she jerks her thumb towards the little café. And there’s one more shadow in the blue gloom, leaning back against the van with his hands in his pockets. And while Sherlock’s face in the night boils down to a white patch under a black patch, Lestrade can feel his consultant’s eyes on him…

 

Next :

-Lestrade goes to talk to Sherlock : skip to Chapter 12.

-Lestrade goes to talk to Donovan: skip to Chapter 9.


	2. Chapter 2

"I think that’s Holmespeak for _Get me some_ ," Sally laughs.

Greg, who finds himself with a salty pun on the tip of his tongue, grins it back in time. Instead he tosses a pocketful of change to the seller and claps a hand on the nearest shoulder, which happens to be Sherlock’s. "Kids these days," he tells the man as two bags of chestnuts change hands over the brasiero. "What next, a ride on the merry-go-round?"

"Well, there’s the London Eye right down Westminster Bridge, guv."

" ‘s o-hay," Sally riposts, huffing and puffing round a hot chestnut. "We have our own private one."

And this, Greg thinks, catching Sherlock’s shocked face in the corner of his eye, this is truly Christmas. Headier than any mulled wine, to see them kiss and make up. Sort of. But he’s too much of an old dog to miss the spark in Sherlock’s eyes at being claimed, or the rough sheen of pride in Sally’s voice. They don’t say much, munching side to side and blowing hot and cold in turn on their fingers, and Greg lets them have their moment. The vendor’s radio cradles a Christmas tune, and the snow falls all around them like a clear conscience.

And then the moment is gone when the chestnuts are, well, most of them, and a long Holmesian arm is sneaking round Greg’s shoulder to dip incognito into Sally’s bag. The next thing Greg knows, he has Sherlock’s arms pinned in his back and Sally is upon the two of them, _tickling_. Sherlock twists and hoots in his grasp, but Sally Donovan, the eldest of three plus a kid brother, knows her business. Wave after wicked wave, her fingers scuttle up the too-thin coat, dancing arpeggios on Sherlock’s ribs until they reach up and pull gently on his scarf and – _No ! No !_   But Sherlock’s outrage explodes in a jackpot of giggles, long and wheezy and adorably high-pitched, while she tickles his sensitive neck. And then he is crying with laughter and Sally too, holding to his shoulders.

 _Catharsis_ , Greg thinks half to himself, wrapping a fierce arm around his two seconds, the first in his heart, while they all hiccup with the moment.

"What’s the time," he mutters at last into Sally’s hair. Her tam’o shanter has fallen at some point in their tumble, and her hair is cascading under his cheek, all burnt chestnut and crinkly softness.

"Mmm. Time to get back to work, sir."

 _"Paper_ work." Sherlock, his disapproval made audible, burrows deeper into the hug. "Waste of time. Just leave it to Bradstreet."

"Can’t," Greg objects feebly. "He has no idea how to manage autocorrect on Word Office. All of his _stakeout_ end up as _makeout_."

"They do, too." Oh god, Sally is starting to laugh again.

"Incidental," Sherlock insists. And then, reluctantly, a half-grudged confession – "I’ve never been on the London Eye."

"Never?"

 _"Never_?" Sally too can’t believe her ears.

And that is how they end up on the London Eye, all three of them boarding an empty capsule. The Eye rocks them gently into more sky, and a higher view, and Sherlock lets out an excited flow of data and exclamation marks as London draws itself out for him in a pattern of lights. Then, when they reach the top of the wheel and London is stealing a march on Christmas, a magic carpet of red and gold firepoints, Sherlock turns and kisses them. Or rather, Sherlock dips his mouth to their cheeks, each in turn, the gesture a little rigid with exhaustion and – _oh_.

It seals Christmas to the future, that kiss. It lets go of the past, just like the night around them is letting go of the day. And just now, this is good enough to go with. Or so Greg thinks, watching their faces in the window, reflected among the myriad little lights. Never mind that gravity will have its way soon enough, pull them down again to rescue Sergeant Bradstreet from the autocorrect. Just this, just the three of them huddled together against the glass, Sally and Sherlock’s arms entwined into a solid alliance at his back. He doesn’t even need to take a pic. The image is in him, a gift from their hearts to his soul, and there it will stay.


	3. Chapter 3

_Awww_ , Greg thinks loudly. Or would, if Sherlock didn’t add, "And I’m not riding in that."

Greg’s aww levels deflate at once. One curt and heated exchange later, they’re turning into one of the little streets leading to the main road. Where Greg’s plan is to hail the first passing cab and pack his ungracious companion in it, and he’d better have some cash on him, too, because there’s a friggin’ limit to peace and good will and nannying Sherlock Holmes.

They can hear a brass band playing a few paces away. Playing... the Grinch song, Greg realizes with a start. His mum’s favorite,  quoted to him chapter and verse when he tried to scowl his way out of washing-up. Or peeling the tatties.

 _"You’re as cuddly as a cactus, you’re as charming as an eel_..."

"I’m sorry?"

 _"You have all the sweetness of a seasick crocodile_ ," Greg sings loudly, his good humour restored to him.

"Are you talking to me, Lestrade?"

But before Greg can answer (or tease him some more), the song tumbles to a stop and an outcry. "Thief! Thief!" – just as a fast shadow takes off into the next street corner.

Sherlock is off behind him before Greg can think of anything to do or say.

"He’s taken our takings!" the lady at the saxo wails, but Greg is already off after Sherlock.

It’s a crazy chase. The crooked dirty jockey leads them a crooked race, with Sherlock hot upon the trail, his coat-tails flaring out like a black swan’s wings, and Greg following where they point. When telling John about it later on, he will say he _thinks_ ponies were involved, because they were in Hyde Park at one point. And an ice rink. He thinks. Certainly remembers holding to the coat-tails while they glided madly across something very cold and slippery, with people literally falling over themselves to get out of their way.

But all good mad things come to an end, even their ice-capade when it brings them neck to neck with the crook. Who still manages to escape by swinging the bag of money into Sherlock’s face. And missing it when Sherlock swings himself to the left, a fine body throw which nevertheless sends him crashing right back into Greg, then onto the ground.

At least the money is crashing along with them.

"You have to stop laughing," Sherlock says mildly after a while. "People are talking."

People are, indeed, in a hushed and reverent circle of speculation above their heads - as far as Greg, lying on the frosted grass among pence and pounds, can make out. He still won’t stop.

"Best…case ending… ever," he wheezes out, tightening his arms around Sherlock. "Oh, you genius."

"I thought I was a cactus." But Sherlock sounds pleased.

"Y’are. My cactus genius. My own private eel." And the terrible pun has Greg hooting all over again, and hug him warmer and tighter. "Never change, you."

And then the frost makes itself palpable, and they have to get up and collect the money, and listen to the Speckled Band’s loud thanksgivings. But that’s another story. As far as Greg’s Christmas tale goes, it ends right here, with Sherlock’s cheek pressed to his and Sherlock’s whispered _Never_ in his ear.


	4. Chapter 4

On a blunt impulse, he turns to her. "Take five?"

This is an old password between them. It can mean and has meant anything in past occasions, from _I need a break_ to _I need a break from Sherlock Holmes_ to _I need a fag_ to _I need alone_ and then, increasingly in that year since Sherlock’s return,  _I need to be with you just five minutes outside of hurry_.

Sal winks at him. "Car engine’s funny," she says. "Davies said it was quite a bellyful, driving it up here."

Pat on her wink, he grins. "Yeah, no wonder we could never start it again. Better walk a bit, Sergeant. Catch a cab – maybe. It’s all little streets down here."

Fifteen minutes later, their backs firmly kept to the main road only a stone’s throw away, they’re still treading the little streets. The area is not posh, is not bad. Shops, mostly, groceries, with a bit of glitter and foil paper in their windows to Yule them up. One or two old bookshops with a wooden front jutting out and old writing on it. It’s nice, just walking by them with Sal. The feeling of peace wells up in him, stronger with each breath, until he’s fairly gulping at the cold air and its familiar, sweet-pungent, soothing…

 _"Sergeant Donovan_!"

Sally flashes him a rebellious wink while she takes another puff.

"You said take five, sir. Shall I stop?"

"Christ, no," Greg says fervently. Then pauses to let his conscience catch up with him. "Just, just, go easy on the stuff, yeah? Sherlock says it will kill me one day – I’d rather avoid collateral damages."

Sally shrugs, passing him the fag. "It’s Hannukah night for me, sir. Nothing wrong with lighting a small comfort fire when I’ll be lighting one for the kids in a few hours."

"Candles," Greg says, struggling to remember. He’d looked it up after she told him about her childhood once, late in the night, while they were waiting for back-up in some rats’ alley or other. The head of family lights one every night, so that will be her now her old man’s passed away and her Gran, who lives in their house, can’t be trusted with matches.  

"Red candles, yes." Sally smiles, her long-legged strides suddenly firmer. "Five of them tonight. For the good men who burned themselves out for the thing they believed in. Oh, and there was a woman too."

"Yeah," her boss says softly. "Yeah, there would be."

They walk a few more paces. "Well, don’t burn out on me," Greg adds under his breath – and another drag.

"Pot, kettle, boss. And I don't like the thought of you tonight, all alone in that flat of yours while I’m stuffing the kids with bimuelos. That was a hard one we boxed tonight, so you should be celebrating too. And no, I don't mean telly celebrating with a side dish of microwave."

"Sally..."

"Come tonight," she says, stopping right there in her tracks and looking up – a little, hardly an inch or two – into his eyes. "Take me home and come and share our candle feast. The kids love you, Greg, they’ll be glad to see you. Will pester you about corpses and such, but then the whole feast is about not pussyfooting around death, so…Oh, and the bimuelos are donuts, by the way. With jam."

"Sally…" But she has lit a candle all right, the light of which is being caught and returned by all the other lights as their little streets widens into the big road and the rush of red lights from traffic and shop windows. Still, he’s trembling. "Sally, I’m –"  _old, Catholic, old, divorced, old, a co-worker, old and grey and_ …

"Be my guest," comes the answer.

She takes a last drag on the cigarette and drops it, deftly putting it out with her booted toe. Her face upturned to him, she opens her mouth and simply lets the warm smoke eddy out into the air while he breathes in. The pleasure strikes sharp-sweet, straight to his lungs and heart. It’s like a chaste kiss, or the promise of it and more, so much more to come, and he just cannot _not_ take it as it comes. It’s something new, that, that – smoke cuddle – and, Christ, he could really get used to it.

When he’s blinked away the mist that came with the smoke, Greg takes off his right glove. The gesture brings a blurred memory of kings and knights, huddled far away in his own Catholic boy’s readings, but right now he’s doing it simply so he can take Sally’s hand in his naked one. And they’re still holding hands when they turn light-ward, and begin their quest for a cab and a way home.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a quick ride, if only because Greg gives in and puts the siren on when traffic threatens to become a bore. Sherlock, after all, has been a good boy. And Sherlock looks dead tired. Better come up with him, Greg tells himself, check that he hasn’t forgotten to put the heat on or stock his fridge. You never know with Sherlock, now that his Jimminy Cricket has gone and got married, and there's a little cricket keeping him and Mary short of sleep with her chirping.

They meet Mrs H. in the stairs, coming a little flushed and flurried from 221B.

"Yoo-hoo," says the Napoleon of Baker Street, running an absent-minded hand in her curls. "Greg, so good to see you. I heard your honk – oh yes, dear, I can tell when it’s one of yours – and thought I’d leave you a little five o’clock. I’ve been baking, you see."

Indeed she has. She’s left her door open, and the rich scent of butter, sugar and rum-soaked raisins is making Greg almost faint as he gives her cheek a thanksgiving kiss.

"Yes, _thank_ you, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock gripes in his back. Probably doesn’t like anyone else to kiss his landlady, Greg reflects even as Mrs H. erupts in coy tee-hees.

"Well, don’t forget to pour him some tea. The two of you look as if you could do with something hot in your stom –" but Sherlock is already on his way, shimmying out of scarf and coat as he strides up the stairs. Greg bundles Christmas and New Year wishes into a quick "Best of!" and trots up after him.

The boys’ common room – except he can’t call it that anymore, not with John gone – is lit up _and_ warm. And there’s a tray on the kitchen table, with Sherlock’s experiments firmly segregated to one end.

"I’ll take this," Sherlock says grandly, with a bee-line to the large plate of cakes.

"Yeah, and leave me to make the tea? Typical."

But then Sherlock comes back. To fetch spoons. And napkins. And remind Greg to warm the pot (when exactly did Sherlock turn into a fusspot?). And then, it’s _green_ Earl grey he wants, not black, not with rock cakes. Greg finds green tea as tasty as warmed-up cow slobber, but keeps mum. Finally he carries the teapot into the common room, but Sherlock is still dawdling in the kitchen.

 _"Will_ you come?" he asks, the day’s baggage of cold, waiting and frustration growing heavier by the minute. When Sherlock doesn’t budge, Greg cuts two quick steps over to the kitchen threshhold and grabs his arm. If Sherlock is spoiling for a run-in, Greg will give it to him. And then…and then his own arms are grabbed in an iron clasp, and Sherlock is flipping him over, or dipping him back, Greg isn't too sure about the semantics. What is beyond any reasonable doubt is what Sherlock does next as he leans over Greg and kisses him.

A full-on smacker.

On his – yeah, not his forehead. Not by a long way south.

Greg’s eye pop open, only to record a new sight : a sprig of mistletoe, hanging from the kitchen doorway to which it has been glued with a generous expanse of sellotape.

"Oh," he says the moment Sherlock releases him. A Sherlock who looks every shade of flustered, same as Mrs H. a minute ago, when he – _oh_.

Suddenly his mind is like a curtain in the wind, flapping and opening, if only for a sec, onto a view of that great incomprehensible mind, and Greg is reading Sherlock loud and clear. Reading every little twitch of mood as Sherlock hangs his face, and _determined_ shades into _gauche_ , morphs into _apprehensive_ , darkens into – but that’s when Greg walks right past him and out of the kitchen.

He flops down on the sofa and crosses his arms sternly. Then he unfolds them. Holds them out and open, lifting his face so that Sherlock can read the joy in it, rich and warm, like the waiting five o’clock.

"Well then," Greg says. "Will you come?"


	6. Chapter 6

Soon enough he has Sherlock sitting on the sofa while he goes and fetches their drinks. It takes a tick, because they don’t have the Peruvian roast which Greg knows is Sherlock’s favorite, and the barista is adamant that you don't put _two_ sugars in a Darkest Double-Bold Extra Black, man, that takes the bloom right off the bean. Greg stands his Sherlock ground and wins the round, carrying back Mr Tall, Dark and Bold (Sherlock's) and a modest shot of espresso (his).

Sherlock’s dark head is lolling over the back of the sofa, but he opens his eyes again when Greg settles the tray on their table and sits next to him.

"Here," Greg says gently, pushing the cup into his hands.

"You’re not drinking," Sherlock murmurs, turning his head a little.

"Hmm." Greg leans toward him, closing his eyes. The peace washes over his eyelid, brown and old-gold and solid like the scent of coffee. He can feel Sherlock’s quiet form next to him and the old leather crackling a voluptuous sigh under their backs, close together. He doesn’t need that shot.

"Your hands. On your lap."

"Hmmm?"

"It’s something I’ve noticed about you," Sherlock murmurs. "Most men, when they’re sitting, rest their hands on their knees. Separately. Women, well, many women don’t give a fig if their hands cuddle in public. Watch, and you’ll see how their hands stroke each other, thumb over wrist, clutching their fingers, how it’s a source of comfort and strength to them. You do that, too."

"I –" Greg looks down on his lap where his hands are resting, slack and warm. And, sure enough - they’re entwined, and the ball of his right thumb is stroking along the side of his left index. He blinks, suddenly conscious.

"Don’t." And Sherlock’s voice sounds both closer and husher. "It – gave me strength, remembering them. Your hands. At times when –" He pauses, and Greg knows that he’s biting his lip. "I had to be my own handler."

"Yeah, well..." And he’ll be damned if he gives a care about who sees or doesn’t see them across the shop window, not when all it takes for gravity to tilt Sherlock against him is the shift of his hand, cradling Sherlock’s knee even as his free arm stretches along the back of the sofa, an open invite. When Sherlock grabs the clue and sags against him, Greg feels the soft release of his breath with a hint of warmth and coffee in it. It brushes against Greg's neck as he closes his arm around the long back, guiding the hug until he has Sherlock well secured in his arms.

His own cuppa is out of arm’s reach now. Never mind. The wonderful scent is still there, enveloping them, and the golden mist, and, more importantly, Sherlock’s hand has stolen up to his chest pocket – not to pry or pickpocket, no. Just to lie there and rest.

"Well," Greg says, and covers it with his own. "They’re gone now, those times." 


	7. Chapter 7

"…Any minute now, you’ll be turning an ice lolly. Nah, make that a stalactite." And Greg laughs while Sherlock tries to fit his hands into the DI’s gloves. They’re too large and the leather is a bit worn with the years, but they’ll do.  Greg helps Sherlock slip them on, then gives him his still-warm hands for good measure.

"Come and have a cuppa. With me. On me. A hot…shot for my hotshot, eh? What say, sunshine?"

Sherlock groans at the pun, which is par for the course. And then, surprisingly, he slips his newly-gloved hand under Greg’s elbow and pivots them towards the café. The place doesn’t look too crowded; looks nice, really, a cross between cabin and cottage, with wooden bookshelves and orangey-yellow lights hanging from the ceiling in glass phials, and big leathery chairs. An empty corner, with an empty sofa. The homey kind, with goldbrown crackled leather and lots of cushions. Sherlock turns to consider it and Greg watches as the stimuli hit, no, caress his exhausted brain – the low-tuned light and the soft music (something classical now, bit like that waltz of Sherlock’s that Greg recorded on his mobile and sometimes, _sometimes_ , plays himself to sleep) –

"Yes," Sherlock says. "Why not?"

 Next:

-Greg and Sherlock enter the coffee house: skip to Chapter 6.

-Greg’s phone rings while they’re still outside : skip to Chapter 13. 


	8. Chapter 8

Only…only there’s a case to box. And they’re the good cops, she and I. And so they squeeze the paper bags into pellets and bin them like the good citizens they are, prior to getting back into the car.

Traffic is slow, but they know their London well. Big Ben is chiming five when they take the car into Westminster, and it’s only ten minutes past when they come to a halt in the Met’s parking lot. Greg can feel his shoulders droop irresistibly when he steps out, his back rounded under the prospect of filing and filing, and yet more filing before the hard day’s work is over.

The snowball lands on his right shoulder. Greg whips round in time to dodge another and ducks behind the car, which is rapidly turning into a snow fort. He’s still panting when he scoops up a handful of snow, his boyhood years kicking in with the adrenaline, and lobs it back in her direction. She sidesteps it, but half slides on the frozen ground and has to put a knee down.

"Last one standing! Last one standing!" Greg shouts before he has to stop, gurgle and swallow a mouthful of snow.

Fifteen minutes later they’re still at it, and so is a good half of the gang. (Hopkins must have spotted them from one of the upper windows. Trust Hopkins, their best hope and worst desk officer, to catch at any straw worth an outing.) The snow is falling thick as mist, and the young’uns have rigged a barricade behind the van, from which they can pelt any poor sod coming their way. And yeah, that apparently includes the Super, now all on four and looking for his specs. Greg raises a thumb in the air.

"Pic break?" Sally asks and waves her own mobile, smirking.

Gorgeous. Oh god, she’s gorgeous. His Sally, always quick-eyed – and there have been times when he could have wished she was a _bit_ less quick on the uptake, a _bit_ less bent on speaking out on what she saw. Just, it wouldn’t be fair. Asking her to be less than her full mettle when he doesn’t expect any less from a John or a Sherlock – or a Gregory Lestrade, if it comes to that. And so he doesn’t.

But look at her _go_. How she steps bang into the fray, with most of her coat stained white and no scarf around her neck, not that he’s seen her wear one, not even at this time of year. He can spot the small golden pendent round her neck, heart-shaped, hanging above the V-opening of her shirt. She’s going to catch her death if he lets this –

But just when he wonders if he should raise his whistle and stop the game, the lads call it a day. There’s some bickering about scores and winners – lads will be lads – and the words "loads of balls" can be heard more than once. Then the Super must have got his specs back, because he’s speaking louder and more forcefully than anyone else. Greg waits until he has Sally’s gaze, puts a finger on his lips and juts his chin toward the back gate.

"Christ, that was fun," they say together once they’re out of danger zone. "That was…"

"…a good day?" Yeah, she knows him chapter and verse. But her voice is husky – and there’s still that touch of wind in the air, making Greg shiver for two.

"Here," he says impulsively and shrugs out of his coat. Or tries to, because she takes it only to wrap it again around the two of them. Make a tent of it, though most of the warmth seems to come from her as she huddles against Greg and he places his arms around her carefully, rubbing tiny circles around her back.

"Share," she says, still husky-voiced. "And share alike."

He should be telling her to nip home and call it a day, and perhaps, if he was a very, very good man, that’s what he would do. Instead, he bends his head until his cheek touches her hair – damp, too, but still soft under his cheek. He can see her face in his mind, that mix of strong and soft, fine-tuned cheekbones and soft-hearted mouth, her young breasts like a stronghold and her skin like –

"Warm milk and cinnamon, with brown sugar," she whispers. "Family recipe, warms you like anything after a day out. Wanna share?"

Rules, he would remind himself if he was a Sunday School cop. Regulations, hierarchy, castes, taboos, telling you who you can or cannot date in the grip of the system. Rules that once kept people like she and he sternly apart. But then, it’s not like he’s never bent a rule in his life.

"Yeah," he tells her, conscious that the new shiver inside of the coat is no longer the cold clouding up on them. He pulls back just a little, so he can peer into her brown eyes and see them kindled with the same happy bloom. "Christ, yeah. Lead right on, Sal."


	9. Chapter 9

Sally meets him halfway with her easy stride, not sway, not sashay, just the cool pacing of hips and legs that Greg could pick with his eyes closed among the Met’s shuffle and bustle. He loves it in her, though he’d be hard pressed to say why. She’s a girl who can run with the best – once raced a thug in high-heeled latex boots when they were roped in for that Clubs and Vice op, a sight impressed forever in him. But she’s tuned her stride to his, walking him into press rooms and arrest zones and out of more trouble that he can think of, and the sight of her cracks a warm beat in his chest.

"All taken care of," Sally says, her eyes brown and crinkly above her smile. "No coal in your stocking this year, boss, not with all your good deeds piling up."

"And you can go light your candle, yeah? With a lighter heart."

 She winks and he winks back, shrewd in their understanding of each other. The Catholic boy, though it’s been a while since he said a prayer that didn’t come down to _…_ Please. And the Sephardic girl, whose father called her Salomon after _his_  father of old Portuguese stock, though they’re only a few in the know.

And then, she sniffs. Turns her head, quickening to the change of air. "Are those chestnuts? Wow. I haven’t tasted them for…nah, that would be telling."

Greg is already fishing for some change in his pocket when a familiar voice cuts in.

"It is a well-known fact that chestnuts contain cancer-reducing tanins."

 

Next? 

-Greg and Sally put Sherlock kindly but firmly in a cab: skip to Chapter 14.

- Here they go gathering nuts in December: skip to Chapter 2.


	10. Chapter 10

"…Time to hit the moon train, sunshine."

He has to chuckle at Sherlock’s frown. "Something my Ma used to tell me when I looked all done in. Like you now."

"I’ll be fine," Sherlock mumbles, but Greg knows better. It’s been a hard night’s day and none of them the fresher or warmer for it, least of all Sherlock who spent most of the night out shoveling snow at Heathrow with an eye on their quarry. In fact, now that Greg is having a closer look, Sherlock looks ready to keel over into the snow and leave a Sherlock-shaped angel in it. Curls and all.

The visual _is_  rather sweet, and Greg hoards it in his mind-locker as he wraps a loose arm about his consultant. He turns to check with Donovan, but she has gone. The Panda car, however, is theirs for the ride.

"You’re smiling," Sherlock says accusingly. "At me. Why are you smiling?"

"Shush." Greg even holds the door open for him. "Hop right in, Gabriel."

A puzzled Sherlock stops in his tracks.

"That’s your name, surely?"

 

Next:

-Greg drives Sherlock safely home : skip to Chapter 5.

-Perhaps Greg was a bit hasty in calling it a day : skip to Chapter 3.


	11. Chapter 11

As if she’d guessed his thoughts, she shows her back to the little Panda car and, with a sudden resolution, turns into one of the little streets. Greg hurries after her, marveling – in normal days, she's the letter and spirit of the Law.

Or is she? There are many things that are not apparent at once in Sally Donovan, as subtle as the dash of brown freckles on her brown ( _Moorish_ , she once told him laughing) cheeks. She’s a law-and-order girl who fell in love with a co-worker. She’s a serious girl, but she went and bought that ridiculous hat for Sherlock (and Sherlock, for all his grousing about inane gifts, has kept this one). She’s his second, and plucky enough to take the lead - for better or worse - when he’s tied up in too many red-tape rosettes, and he respects that in her.

And so Greg follows her, his curiosity tickled when she turns her head to see if he’s behind her, grins and walks on in quick, precise steps. When the street opens up on a new square, a larger one, the sound of music floats across to them and then she has to stop, because right at the center of the square is a large merry-go-round.

It’s one of those mixed bags they set up for Christmas, half tradition, half pop trends. This one has the usual horses in the usual gaudy shades, with a flying pig, a unicorn and a dragon to honour ye olde fairy-tales. It also has a model version of the _Enterprise_ , a Batmobile and a blue police-box straight out of the 1960s. Sally takes one look at it and hops onto the platform.

Greg takes one look at the adults standing around the carousel, all of whom look at least ten years younger than he, and feels horribly self-conscious.

"One spin, boss!" Sally’s voice comes to him with a clear ring in it. The snow is no longer falling, and the carousel lights burn freely in the night. "Come on! One spin, and then I’ll drive you back to work."

…Oh, hell. They’re both in civvies, no one knows who they are, and it’s not like he’s going to file this in later reports. _After reading out the riot act to the suspect and ascertaining that he was taken through the correct procedure, my sergeant and I proceeded to a hijack a Tardis without a search warrant and_ … And go suck eggs, Greg’s eight-year-old self, long buried under paperwork, tells Detective Inspector Lestrade as the latter boards the carousel a little stiffly.

"Here," Sally says, and flattens herself to one side of the Tardis. It is roofless, giving them a modicum of breathing space, but it has also been constructed for a much smaller-sized crew. She grins at his obvious effort to keep  his stomach in. "I’m not Martha, by the way. I’m Rose."

Greg, who has confessed to watching most of the Nine and Ten era when babysitting his nieces, has no time to ponder those words. They’re off on their ride, slowly, then, as the machinery recovers its vim and welly, faster. And then faster. And then their own vehicle begins to spin in counter-movement, and Greg is clutching Sally for dear life. On and on, and, he thinks at some time, up and down, or perhaps that’s just the kick of the ride and Sally’s bright voice in his ears – _Copper up !_ – adding to the high. He is laughing too by the end of the ride, spilling it out until he has a stitch in his side. This is ridiculous. And glorious. And as the ride slows down, Greg knows that the glory does not lie so much in the tinky-tinkledy music, or the timey-wimey fun, but to the closeness it's brought between them. The light press of Sal’s head against his shoulder and her arm around him as they anchor each other, keep each other safe from a fall. He can feel a quiet, unquiet tenderness well up in him while the platform brings its last rotations to a stop.

"Thanks," he whispers, not caring if his voice is rusty or if he’s waited a few extra seconds before loosening the hug.

She doesn’t speak while they climb down the thing and turn back into the alley towards their departure point. But when they’re in the car, and he’s taken the wheel, she speaks again: "You know, I was thinking I'd treat myself to a Dr Who marathon next week-end."

"Suits me," he says, and only then realizes what he’s said. For a split second he waits for her to bite her lip and look away, or read him the riot act, or …

"Good," she says instead, and he no longer minds one bit if he's grinning stupidly all the way back to Wesminster Road.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg says "Hey", then "Oi", then, when that fails to raise a penny, "Psst". Sherlock makes a _Oh, chat mode_ noise.

"We’re done," Greg explains, feeling a bit stupid. Telling Sherlock the obvious is like Photoshopping Gregson’s head on Kim Kardashian – the consequences can be equally dire. But Sherlock doesn’t reply at first, only keeps very stiff and silent in the dusk. Then, very stiffly, very silently, he takes a hand out of his pocket and offers it to Greg.

…Yeah, it's one of his. Though Greg does wonder for a nanosecond. Because it is just as numb and white as if...yeah, with only the tips raw-red from the cold, which strikes Greg as unusual because Sherlock-and-gloves are as much of an item as Sherlock-and-coat. Or Sherlock-and-John before John... but that’s another story.

Then Lestrade remembers that the door that was very conveniently picklocked at an earlier stage of the case, with none of his people responsible.

"God," he thinks aloud. "And look at your nose, too."

Sherlock, predictably, glares at him. "If you’re thinking" – even his words are frosted on the edge – "of c-c-comparing me to a communally-challenged reindeer, _don’t_. You won't coax me into guiding your sleigh tonight." Greg is about to laugh when Sherlock adds under his breath, "Not when I’ve already done it for you."

It must be the air, but Greg’s eyes fog up with an old, familiar warmth. When it fades out, Sherlock is glancing down at his feet and rubbing his hands together. God, he must hate the cold. Probably rented 221B only because it had a fireplace the size of Greg’s telly corner.

"Hey," Greg repeats, taking off his own gloves and pressing them into the slim numb hands. "Say, kid…"

 

Next:

-Lestrade invites Sherlock for a hot drink at the coffee shop: skip to Chapter 7.

-Lestrade offers to drive Sherlock back to Baker Street : skip to Chapter 10.


	13. Chapter 13

_Fucked by the bell,_   is Greg's next thought as Sherlock’s mobile rings. He allows himself one discreet peep when Sherlock flips it open and **KRAMPUS** appears in ominous black letters on the screen.

"What now?" Sherlock asks in his most vinegar tones. But then, Mycroft Holmes can be oily for two as Greg remembers from past occasions.

 _"Now_? We’re the twenty-fourth. Surely Christmas can wait another day?"

"Not another minute," Mycroft answers in Greg’s back and to Greg’s startled yelp. Here he is indeed, phone in hand, stepping out of the inevitable car. Now taking pride of place in the little square after it stole up on them without a sound, even though the snow is hardly beginning to cover the ground.

 "We had a deal," Mycroft reminds his brother. "One more case, then back to the coop. I dare say the case is closed, or the Detective Inspector wouldn’t be headed to" – Mycroft’s eyebrows rise imperceptibly under his tiny cowlick – "the _Bean & Gone Café_. How amusing."

Greg’s blood temperature instantly rockets up a few degrees. Mycroft lording it over his brother is irritating enough. Mycroft bitching about an innocent pun is not to be tolerated.

"Sorry, mate," he says, and claps a large hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He can feel Sherlock taking an imperceptible closer step. "I’m detaining Mr Holmes so he can assist the police in their enquiry. Make a deposition, all that."

"In a coffee establishment?" Mycroft’s eyebrows are racing each other for his hairline.

"Yeah, well." Greg tips him a toothy grin. "They say caffeine’s a whopper for your memory."

"Nevertheless, I promised my parents to fetch Sherlock tonight. We’re spending Christmas at our grandmother’s residence, and I’m afraid everyone would be greatly disappointed if he did not turn up with me." Mycroft’s voice drops to a persuasive quaver. "Think of your old Mummie, Inspector. You wouldn’t want anyone to stand between her and her son, now, would you?"

"Oh, for God’s sake." Sherlock stamps his foot on the quickly-whitening ground. "Not the Mummie card. Anything but the Mummie card. All right, then – I’ll come if he does."

Mycroft and Greg open well-synched mouths. "And that’s not negotiable."

Greg closes his mouth. Mycroft doesn’t. "And you’ll have to sit in the front. With the driver."

Mycroft, wonderfully, closes his mouth. Why becomes quickly clear as the driver’s door opens and Anthea pops her charming head – in a white faux-fur toque – out.

"We’re going to be late on schedule, sir."

…which is how Greg Lestrade, instead of returning to file his case in the neon-and-formica wasteland of his office, finds himself enjoying the embonpoint of a luxurious back seat. Where he soon falls asleep, adding his well-earned snores to the engine’s until he wakes up to a sky which is all pink and white shades.

"Welcome to Paris," Sherlock whispers in his ear and Greg finds himself waking up in his consultant’s arms, his head cushioned against Sherlock’s scarf, while the touch which called him out of sleep is Sherlock’s fingertips tracing a soft path in his hair. The new proximity with Sherlock, flesh and soul, should feel like a thing from Outer Space. And accordingly scary. But it doesn’t. Somewhere in the muzzy depths of sleep, the whole situation has become natural. Beautiful, strange, enticing – made Sherlock’s image, Greg thinks, mumbling his grateful _Hon-hon_ into the scarf.  

Sherlock moves them so they can see the view from the car window, the sun rising over the grey-silver Seine in its cradle of bridges, the Eiffel tower lined up in the distance, behind a row of poplars hung with webs of Christmas lights. And it shouldn’t feel new. Because this is the same sight that his Da took Greg to see when he was four, and Greg took his future wife to see in their raw, hand-to-mouth twenties, and it just shouldn’t feel so bright and new, this early morning view. So – promising.

"Give it a chance?" Sherlock asks almost shyly, pressing his cheek on the top of Greg’s head, and – "yeah," Greg says, forgetting even the kind shadows in the front seats. Because third time can be the charm when all is said and done. And if it's Sherlock's charm - well, Greg sees no reason to fight it. " _Oui_ , sunshine. Let’s do just that."


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens.

A time for war and a time for peace ; a time to kill and a time to heal ; a time to consult and a time to forget everything your reporting sergeant told you about the proper use of police property and let out a shrill whistle for that cab rounding the corner.

Sherlock looks rather indignant at their lack of interest in the European chestnut, but agrees to ride home. It’s becoming obvious that he’s ready to collapse, well past noticing Sally when she scrawls a _Please Take Care of this Bear_ on a post-it and sticks it on his coat lapel. When the car drives off, and she turns back from waving at it, Greg is handing her a small brown bag with a bow. 

"Oh," she says, as her cheeks flush up like the embers in the vendor’s brasiero and her fingers touch his over the gift. "Thanks." And then, because this is what they do, deep down, when the job’s done and they can leave _Follow the Leader_ to the kiddies - "Wanna share?"

"And share alike." Lestrade, echoing her unspoken thought.

In the end, it is Greg who holds the bag for her while Sally peels a chestnut for him in the sweet smoky smell.

It’s been a good day. And it’s a beautiful night. Here they are, she and he, in the heart of winter, and it’s not even cold. The snow has begun to fall, with the sky still visible between the white flakes, and they’re looking at the soft-red fire in the vendor’s brasiero. It’s peace, and Greg doesn’t want to leave.

 

Next: if peace is a scheme of colours, then pick your favorite:

-White : skip to Chapter 8.

-Blue : skip to Chapter 11.

-Red: skip to Chapter 4.


End file.
